


Thrills

by Hiding_in_the_cookie_jar



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mental Illness, Slow Burn, Suicide mention, Teen Angst, bc the boys are rebels, but there is hard drug use later on, i guess, smoking and drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-15 06:06:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiding_in_the_cookie_jar/pseuds/Hiding_in_the_cookie_jar
Summary: Nigel had never been formally introduced to the boy that lived above him. There were only a few things he knew -- he was part of a very religious family, he was a year older than Nigel, and there was an incident years ago when Nigel was about to start high school.Meanwhile, life in the slums is getting the better of everyone's sanity and bodies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't take full credit for this idea. Tumblr user martinmoran deserves recognition for teaching me about real life Thomas Brooks and bouncing ideas back and forth with me.

The halls were usually bare of children. Nigel knew he was not the only kid in the building (though he would argue anyone who called him a kid still at age 18), and yet he had never seen anyone in the 10 years of living there happily playing with dolls and toys. The apartment wasn't the friendliest of places for families, and Nigel always remembered being told to stay inside unless an adult was with him.

So Nigel had never known his neighbors. Which was a tragedy for his curious mind. 

There was a family that lived directly above them -- a widowed father and his two kids. Nigel had only seen yellow, bouncy curls on occasion. The girl was a few years younger than him, he knew. She always looked cheerful, always carrying books with her and sometimes with a friend by her side. The boy Nigel had seen less often. He didn't look friendly. He almost always wore a scowl and had dark, long hair. Nigel had only ever seen him in church clothes he looked awfully uncomfortable in. They had said only a few words to each other their entire lives -- a quick “hey” or to ask to borrow a dryer sheet in the laundry room. Sometimes he would look at Nigel with a frown before quickly averting his gaze to the floor. Nigel didn't blame him for being so quiet and unhappy. He had heard rumours as a kid. Gossip about the boy's suicide attempt that lead to a long talk between Nigel and his brother about the importance of seeking help. Nigel never felt the boy was unfriendly. Just miserable and living under a strict roof. 

One night Nigel escaped through the window of his bedroom. There was a fight in the living room about the direction a show was going between Nick and Will -- who was by no means an unfamiliar face, but Nigel was always confused why he was around so much if he and Nick hated one another. 

Nigel felt the cold air sting his face. His jacket didn't do much to keep him warm. The weather was changing again, and the nights were getting colder, and the fire escape was less appealing. But Nigel preferred it over hearing his brother yell and be yelled at. 

The sun was getting closer to meeting the horizon. Nigel found poetic beauty in it, but also found it annoying that it was still so early. The sun had no right to disappear so soon.

There was music playing from above. Nigel had never listened to the style before. It was some sort of punk band with monotonous singing and heavy bass coming through the crappy speakers of a phone. Nigel tried looking through the slits of metal above him to see who was playing such awful sound. 

He faintly saw a man sitting directly above him, where the Brooks lived. Which didn’t make sense. They were a good, crazy Puritan family that would never listen to that music. Or so Nigel thought. He realized he didn’t know much about them. The only information he had on them was from the rumours and gossip and the warnings from Nick. 

He continued looking up as he climbed the ladder that lead to the man. He hoped to not be seen or heard, but his shoes hitting rungs made hollow beats that could eventually be heard over the music and he was soon making eye contact with Thomas Brooks

He was only a year older than Nigel, but his baby face and hair that nearly fell into his eyes made him look younger. His legs were pulled up to his chest, crossed at the ankles, and held by his left arm. His right hand tapped ash off his cigarette onto the metal grate. He wore a jacket over a black t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days. His blue eyes looked down at Nigel, who stood frozen on the ladder. 

Nigel had never expected him to look so normal.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet and deeper than his appearance would suggest. 

“Hi,” Nigel said, his voice also quiet and just what his awkward appearance would suggest. 

The Brooks boy took a drag on his shortening cigarette, the cherry lighting up with his inhale. There was an awkward silence as a song ended. 

“I just wanted to see who was up here,” Nigel explained.

Another song started, sounding too similar to the song before it. 

“It’s just me,” the Brooks boy said. He fiddled with his cigarette in between his fingers. “Is my music bothering you?” 

“No! I was… I was just curious. I didn’t know if it was you or… someone else.”

“Like I said, it’s just me.”

He took another long drag, letting the smoke out in a slow stream. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Nigel said, cheeks starting to burn with embarrassment.   

The Brooks boy looked at him and smirked. “Are you just going to hang there?” Nigel didn’t answer. “Do you want a cigarette?”

Nigel shook his head as the carton was offered to him. “I don’t smoke.”

“Good for you. I suppose it’s bad for your health. But, a lot of things are bad, and they don’t get nearly the same amount of flack.”

“I guess…”

“Come up here if you’re going to keep talking.”

Nigel hesitantly climbed the rest of the way. He took a seat on the cold grate. The smoke had an assaulting odor, but Nigel didn’t say anything. It would be hypocritical to judge another. His own clothes probably smelled like the musty theatre he worked in, covered in dust and paint and old wood. His hair probably smelled the same as well. The thick curls were good at locking in scent.

“I don’t think we ever actually met. I’m Thomas. Or Tommy as my sister calls me. Really, only the people at my church call me Thomas.”

“What do your friends call you?”

“I’d have to have friends for them to call me something.”

Nigel scratched his nails against his jeans. Tommy flicked his cigarette off the fire escape. 

“I’m Nigel.”

“I’ve heard your name before.” Tommy offered his hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Nigel shook it even though his grip was limp and palm sweaty. He never thought he would sitting so close to a Brooks. But, he also never thought the family to be normal people. 

He could see that Tommy’s nails were cut short and stained with nicotine. His hands were soft, though, and pale like milk. There was something attractive about hands like those. They were like an artist’s hands -- hands Nigel wished he had. Small and delicate from writing rather than rough from labor.

“You’re 18, right?”

Nigel nodded. 

“Out of school?”

Nigel nodded again. 

“Good. School is the worst. At least, the religious school my dad sent me to was the worst. A normal, public school is probably amazing.”

Nigel had never heard such a statement. His school was awful. There were probably dozens of health and safety code violations. The food was nearly inedible. The bathrooms (Nigel had trained his bladder to hold in seven hours worth of piss to avoid stepping foot in one) were dark and filthy with pathetic graffiti scribbled on the stalls in magic marker. There were fights in the lunchroom, kids slept in every class, and the teachers could only do so much to keep half the students from failing. Nigel had emerged close to top of his class, which resulted in teachers adoring him and bitterness resting in his gut whenever he thought about that hell-hole. 

“It sucked,” was all he said. 

Tommy scoffed. “Better than driving 30 minutes to get to some snotty, bible school where the teachers told you were going to hell if you didn’t do your bible study the night before.”

Nigel wondered why he was having such a weird conversation with a boy he had just met. 

“Let me tell you,” Tommy said, raising to his feet and grabbing his phone. “Religious people are not what they make themselves out to be. We suck.”

Tommy opened the window to his apartment and stepped in. “I’ll see you later, Nigel. You’re pretty bad at conversations. We’ll work on that.”

Nigel opened his mouth but Tommy closed the window before he could say anything. He stayed sitting, furrowing his eyebrows and looking down at the street. He had never expected a conversation with Tommy to be so surreal. And there was an implication of another one to follow? Nigel didn’t have many friends, but he was certain that that was not how they were typically made. 

Nigel began to stand. His hand brushed something, pushing it back against the brick wall. It was Tommy’s cigarettes -- a cheap kind in a crumpled carton that proudly displayed its health warnings. Nigel supposed he could have left them there. Tommy would eventually remember them. But then again, he wondered if his father was friendly to smoking. It seemed like it should have been a sin. Nigel had never heard of priests or pastors lighting up after Sunday sermons. But Nigel had never been to a Sunday sermon, either. 

He shoved them in his pocket and climbed back down. The wind was picking up, and Nigel slipped back into his bedroom before the cold began to numb his skin. It was quiet. Will must have left or at least he and Nick ran out of energy to keep fighting. 

Nigel sat on his bed, feeling the cigarettes press into his thigh. He rested his chin in his hands. 

He wasn’t able to get the bad music out of his head or the smell of smoke out of his nose.


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy passed a cigarette to Nigel. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never smoked before,” he said.

He cupped his hand around his own cigarette as he lit it. Nigel twirled his around in his fingers. 

“I haven’t actually,” he said.

“Your brother is always in that one guy’s apartment -- what’s his name? Nostra?”

“Yeah?”

Tommy smirked. “You know why your brother goes there, right?”

Nigel’s cheeks were hot. “Shut up.”

“Everyone knows that Nostra’s a drug dealer.”

“He’s not a dealer. He just… occasionally sells stuff to Nick.”

“And that doesn’t make him a dealer?”

“It doesn’t. They’re friends.”

“And friends let friends buy their drugs.”

Tommy flicked his lighter’s wheel and a small flame popped up with a spark. He used his hand to shield it from the wind that pushed his hair back from his forehead. Nigel put the cigarette up to his lips and leaned into the flame. 

“You have to breathe in, silly,” Tommy said. He pulled the lighter away when the cherry turned black and orange and smoked. “And you better inhale.”

Nigel took in a mouthful of smoke. His fingers didn’t know how to hold the cigarette when he pulled it away. He rested his arm on his knee, trying to look casual as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. 

Tommy took a drag, watching Nigel cough and splutter. 

“I guess you really haven’t ever smoked before.” Tommy flicked ash off his cigarette. “Huh… I thought you would at least do  _ something  _ a little rebellious since you’re always around junkies.”

“No one is a junkie,” Nigel croaked in between coughs.

“Yeah right. Who’s that one guy that’s always here? He pisses off my dad on purpose. I can tell he does something -- or a lot of things.”

“That’s Will.” Nigel’s throat burned when words passed through. 

“He’s a junkie.”

“He… might be. I don’t know.”

“He’s too twitchy and eccentric to not be. Come on, don’t fool yourself. Your brother has to do something, too.”

Nigel looked at the growing tail of grey ash on the end of his cigarette. It fell off, taken away by a gust of wind. 

“He smokes weed.”

“That’s it?”

“ _ Yes.  _ It’s not addictive just cancerous.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’m not judging. It’s just how some people are. Some people get hooked on certain things. Sometimes it’s drugs and sometimes it’s cigarettes.”

“Is it… God’s path for them or something?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know that?”

“You’re Puritan.”

“My dad and sister are Puritan. I just go to church. Besides, God doesn’t make people suffer. He wouldn’t intentionally put someone through shit like that if it’s considered sin. Read the goddamn book of Job.”

“Book of what?”

“Job. He was a guy who was like… super thankful and devoted to God, but then Satan goes: ‘He’s just pious because you’ve given him all this nice crap. If you take it away than he’ll curse your name, and I can prove it.’ So, God just lets Satan do his thing. Satan gives Job these nasty blisters, kills his livestock, kills his slaves, kills his kids. It’s all really fucked up. His wife tells him to just blame God and curse him and just fucking die. But Job doesn’t ever curse God, there’s all this poetic shit, and then he gets all his shit back -- including new kids.”

“So what does that have to do with addicts?”

Tommy rolled his eyes and lifted his cigarette back up to his mouth. “Nigel, I just told you. It’s not God that makes people suffer. It’s Satan.”

“That wasn’t the message I got from the story.”

“What did you get from it?”

“That God is a dick and sits by and watches while Satan does the dirty work.”

Tommy hummed. “Congrats, you summed up most of the Old Testament.”

“Thanks.”

“But the real message of the story is exploring why the righteous suffer.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all about how this man’s faith never wavers despite all the shit that’s being thrown at him. He just takes it all and fucking deals with it. But the real fucked up thing is that it’s just a trick. He gets a happy ending. He gets all his stuff back -- which is bullshit because it’s all based around the worth of material things and not the sentiment of everything he lost. But that doesn’t really happen. People go to my dad all the time asking when God is going to go easy on them. And he just tells them that they have to wait and be faithful and renounce their sins. But shit never gets easier for them. They’re still dealing with illness. They’re still living in poverty and filth. Nothing’s going to get better for them because God isn’t controlling this shit. It’s all politics and government. No matter how long you wait and how much you pray, things aren’t going to get better. And I wish my dad would preach that instead and fucking teach people to take it upon themselves to help others instead of waiting on God.”

“That reminds me of a story.” Nigel smothered his unsmoked cigarette on the metal grates. “It’s something like… There was a man who was drowning and was determined he was going to be saved by God. And three boats passed him, offering him help each time. He always told them that he didn’t need help because God was going to save him.”

“Stupid.”

“Yeah, the guy died. And when he went to heaven and asked God why He didn’t save him, God said ‘I sent you three fucking boats.’”

“I don’t think God ever used that explicit of language.”

“I know, but I imagine God needed to let off some steam.”

Tommy chuckled. He tossed his cigarette off the fire escape. 

“I know you got that story from that Will Smith movie,” he said.

“Shut up.”

Nigel couldn’t help but smile at Tommy’s laughs. He was a total jackass. Nigel normally didn’t want anything to do with people who hung out on fire escapes to smoke and talk shit. But Tommy was appealing. There was kindness in his eyes and fighting in his mind. Nigel could tell he just wanted a simpler life. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. Nigel looked down at the city, trying to ignore the trash and grime that resided below in favor of the faint traces of beauty a little farther away. If he squinted, he could see some appeal of his neighborhood. The store on the corner could be nice if he pretended like the owner didn’t have rotting teeth and a shotgun behind the counter. The park would be beautiful if he ignored the people collapsed on the ground, hugging bottles in brown paper bags. The police station would make Nigel feel safe if the officers appeared to do their jobs and responded to break-ins and violence instead of the innocent kids who threatened the white women just by walking down the street to get home for dinner. 

“Do you believe in God?” 

Tommy had been looking at his phone. But he stopped scrolling to look at Nigel with half-lidded eyes and an annoyed gaze.

“Why the hell would you ask me that?” he said. 

“Because you go to church, you lead a youth group, and your family is as religious as they come.”

“I…” Tommy sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I really hate that question, you know? Because it sounds so simple when people ask it. ‘Do you think God is real?’ I don’t fucking know. I don’t have the answers. I just put on a suit and study the Bible and recite the same bullshit to kids that’s been recited to me since I’ve been able to open my eyes. I mean… fuck, Nigel why would you ask me that? I’m just a 19-year-old boy living in the slums. I don’t know shit. Why should I have enough evidence to make a judgement on a higher power that supposedly controls life and death?”

“I was just asking!”

“Do you give a shit about my answer?” 

“Not really.”

“Then why ask?!”

“I was just curious. For fuck’s sake. A simple ‘I don’t know’ would have done the trick, you dick.”

Tommy opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. Then, he laughed. He laughed so hard tears welled up in his eyes. 

“Oh my fucking God,” he gasped.

Nigel couldn’t see what was so funny. He furrowed his eyebrows together. Tommy apparently couldn’t take anything seriously. 

“I’m leaving,” Nigel said, starting to stand. 

“No!” Tommy grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him back down. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I just hate everything so much that I have to laugh to keep myself from jumping off this fire escape. I  _ really _ hate religion, Nigel. I hate that it makes people fight all the time.” He wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath. “People have no right to ever talk about religion ever. I hate it. It’s so fucked up that an ambiguous being in the sky that no one has ever seen can start so many fights over whose opinions are right or wrong. Honestly, it’s just so stupid that people get so worked up over it.”

“To the point that wars start.”

“To the point that wars start,” Tommy repeated.

He frowned at the building across from them. The ugly, brown bricks seemed to frown back. 

“If I were a preacher,” Tommy went on. “I would tell people to give up their devotion to their opinion and put all the effort into their faith. Because who gives a fuck if you think Jesus was the messiah or if Muhammad is the final prophet. Seriously, it’s all so tangled up and half the people that sit with me in Church don’t even know what they’re following. I’d just tell everyone to give up listening to preachers and read the Bible themselves. Because a preacher’s interpretation is as bad as his bigotry.”

Tommy dipped his head and tugged his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“My sister’s a good kid,” he said. “She doesn’t listen to our dad when he preaches -- which might just be a teenager thing. But she doesn’t think of religion as something to control your opinion on other people. She doesn’t care about differences in practices or if people are gay or whatever.”

Nigel noticed Tommy’s shoulders tensed slightly. He didn’t mention it.

“She’s super political -- but in a good way, you know? It’s like… she wants to be involved in politics but just to help people. Because it’s like religion to her. Religion can be used to help people indirectly -- it’ll only help their souls or however she said it, but politics is a more immediate effect. And not everyone is religious but everyone has to abide by politics. Anyways, where I was going with this…”

“Something about how she’s a good kid and doesn’t care about differences --”

“Oh! Okay, so you’d expect she’d be all into the conservatives who want to make the country all about God, right? Well, she’s actually super liberal, and I think she’ll grow out of it a little bit because right now she doesn’t know a whole lot and is teetering on Communism. But she’s so liberal because she hates it when politicians bring religion into their policies or whatever.”

“Yeah. Bible-bashers in office suck,” Nigel said. He wasn’t exactly interested in politics, but he knew enough that he hated conservatives who kept ruining his state of living.

“They’re probably all going to hell. They’re greedy and slimy liars. I’m not getting into that because politics gets me just as worked up as religion. But my sister hates it when religion and politics mix. Because this isn’t a totally Christian country, you know? There’s all sorts of people here. She says that people who preach Christian values while sitting in office are just totally ignoring the people they’re supposed to be representing, and that if they were truly Christian they would put aside religion and just focus on being good people.”

“I don’t think those people are as Christian as they think they are.”

“Right.”

“My brother is a drug addict, and we haven’t been to temple since we were kids but I’m sure we’re better at this whole religion thing than the people who sit on piles of money to exploit their beliefs for votes.”

Tommy smirked. “So your brother  _ is  _ a drug addict.”

“Shut up.”

Nigel elbowed Tommy in the side. Tommy shoved him away.

“But really,” Nigel said. “I don’t know at this point. He could be. I doubt it, but I can’t be certain.”

Tommy avoided eye contact, obviously uncomfortable with the new seriousness. “That bites.”

“Yeah… but I also think I would be able to tell by now. He acts a little weird at times but not drug addict weird. Besides, he’d never do something as dumb as becoming an addict.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he does a lot of dumb things, but I don’t think letting himself get hooked on something is on the list.”

“Well… I don’t think drug addicts are dumb. You have to have some sympathy for people who fall into shit like that.”

“Isn’t that so religious of you to say…”

“It’s not. Just shut up.”

“I have sympathy for people who get mixed up into all that. It’s not always their fault. But for Nick… that’d be so stupid. He has too much going on.”

“What about that guy… What’s his name again?”

“Will? He’s an idiot. Not for the drugs thing but for everything else he does. I don’t know why Nick hangs around him. They hate each other, but I think they just don’t have anyone better to work with and spend their time with.”

“That sounds gay.”

“They both have girlfriends.”

“Still sounds gay.”

“Shut up about it being gay.”

“I bet they’re both giving it to each other in the butt when no one is around. It’s hate sex.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“There is nothing disgusting about gay people, Nigel. You would fit right in at my church.”

“It’s not about it being gay. It’s about me thinking about my brother having sex.”

“Oh, that is gross. Sorry.”

“You’re obscene.”

“I will have you know a lot of kids raised by the Bible are obscene.”

“You’re not a kid.”

“I am so --”

A tapping at the window cut Tommy off. They turned around to see Tommy’s little sister leaning against the window sill, smiling. She opened the window. 

“It’s cold out here,” she said, somehow managing to sound perky. 

“What do you want, Portia?” Tommy asked. 

“I need help with homework.”

“Wow. That sounds like it’s not my problem.”

“Help me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What are you doing that’s so important that you can’t help me?”

“Umm… this.”

Tommy gestured to him and Nigel. Nigel smiled at Portia. She was adorable. She had big, brown eyes and her hair was a shiny yellow and curled. She wore a black sweater that contrasted heavily with her pale face.

“I’m Nigel,” he said. “I live right below you.”

“Oh, you’re one of the Bottoms? The theatre people?” Portia’s eyes lit up. 

“Yeah.” Nigel nodded. 

“That has to be so exciting!”

“It really isn’t.”

“That’s why they turned to drugs,” Tommy said. “To have some sort of thrill in their life.”

“He’s lying,” Nigel said when he saw Portia’s eyes widen. “Tommy, stop talking and help her.”

“But I’d rather be out here with you,” Tommy said. 

“Dad’s going to be home soon,” Portia said. “You better come in anyways.”

“Fine.”

Tommy got to his feet, shoving his cigarettes at Nigel. “Keep an eye on these again? I think my dad is getting suspicious.”

Nigel nodded. 

“You smell,” Portia said as Tommy crawled in the window.

“Hush. Or I’ll let you fail algebra.”

“It’s chemistry actually.”

“Ugh, that’s even worse. Maybe you’ll be better off without my help.”

Tommy turned to Nigel, poking his head out the window. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

“Same place?”

“Yup. You know my office hours.”

Nigel scoffed. “I’ll bring the cigarettes.”

“Great. Don’t get in too much trouble down there.”

Nigel rose and walked to the latter. “You know how rebellious I am. It might be hard.”

“Oh, I know how crazy you get on Wednesday nights.”

Nigel crawled down to his own window. He heard the window above slam -- the only way it would close. He climbed back in his room, tossing the cigarettes on his nightstand and falling on his bed. He could hear Nick through the thin walls, talking to Bea about something Nigel probably didn’t care about. 

He didn’t know why but whenever he left Tommy, he felt a mix of happiness and misery. Like he was happy he had just finished visiting him in their normal space on the fire escape, but he felt lonelier than ever after they parted. Nigel just assumed they weren’t spending enough time together. He wasn’t getting as close to Tommy as he was wanting to. He wasn’t sure what the meetings were leading up to. Were they friends already? Could friends be made after only a week? They were awfully mean to each other during almost every conversation, and Nigel always had trouble figuring out what their sharp words meant. He couldn’t tell if they meant the insults or if they actually cared enough.

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in.”

Nick peaked his head in. “Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.”

Nigel sat up. Nick knew his irregular eating habits well enough to never force a meal.

“When did you start smoking?”

Nigel followed Nick’s stare to the cigarettes. Funny enough, Nick disapproved of smoking tobacco. He claimed marijuana was more therapeutic than it was dangerous. Nigel didn’t know enough to make an argument. 

“Those aren’t mine,” he said. 

“Whose are they?”

Nigel thought about the words. “They’re a friends.” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Friday nights usually came with drunk kids roaming the streets below. There were parties everywhere, and Tommy could see teenagers roam from place to place only stopping to puke. At midnight, it would start to quiet down as everyone settled into their parties for a few hours. 

Tommy sometimes wished he could have been part of it. When he was in school, he had a strict curfew. Even if he didn’t, he would never been invited to a party. His callousness and inability to keep a conversation with the pious students he knew would later steal their parents alcohol made certain that he had no friends. Tommy scowled at the kids walking into the apartment building across the street. They laughed so loud it reached him on the fifth floor fire escape, and he knew someone would come out an hour later puking.

“I’m back.”

Tommy turned to Nigel, climbing out of his window. He held a bottle in one hand, two mugs in the other, and wore a smile. The window spread a warm light onto the dark.

“What’s that?” Tommy asked. 

Nigel handed the bottle over. Tommy could tell it was whiskey, but his knowledge of alcohol was limited. 

“It’s Nick’s. We can’t drink all of it.”

Nigel didn’t seem like the type of person to drink whiskey. His gentle face and awkward demeanor suggested he didn’t drink anything stronger than milk. But he was setting down the mugs and reaching for the drink.

“Isn’t he going to know we took it?” Tommy asked. 

Nigel took the bottle back, unscrewing the lid. “He knows we have it.”

“He lets you drink? You’re 18.”

“Yeah.”

Nigel poured a modest amount of whiskey into the mugs.

“Do you drink?” he asked, handing Tommy a mug. 

Tommy shook his head, looking at the liquid that looked black in the night. Nigel was already taking a gulp from his mug. Tommy had seen whiskey on TV. It was supposed to be sipped. Taken in slowly by men in suits in dimly-lit bars. 

“I’m surprised you do,” he said.

Nigel shrugged. “It’s a nice feeling when you get just drunk enough. Drink it.”

Tommy raised the mug to his lips. He looked at Nigel before taking a sip. It burned his throat but made his chest and stomach warm up. It wasn’t a pleasant taste, but he understood why Nigel would drain his mug in a few minutes. The feeling from just a small sip made Tommy feel momentarily impenetrable to the cold air. 

“Like it?” Nigel asked. 

“It tastes like shit.”

“What did you expect?”

Nigel poured more into his own mug. He wrapped his thin hands around it, fingers lacing together under the handle. He drank it easily. 

“Oh my god you’re an alcoholic,” Tommy said. 

“I am not. Stop making assumptions about everyone.”

“You just --”

“If I were an alcoholic, I would be drinking every night. Have you seen me drink before?”

“No.”

“See? I’m not an alcoholic.”

“How’d you learn to drink like that?”

Nigel directed his attention to kids stumbling out of the same apartment building across the street and said: “My brother, I guess.”

And Tommy knew there was more going on in the Bottom’s lives than he had thought. 

Nigel took another sip. Tommy sat his drink aside. He had cigarettes to kill himself with. He smoked them like how Nigel drank -- without a care for anything but the buzz and maybe the long-term effects. 

Tommy never considered how the Bottoms got to be living in such a shitty area. The only reason his family was there was so his father could preach among the bottom-feeders and give himself some sort of pat on the back. His family was always separated from the rest of the town. But the Bottoms were living in the middle of it--had been living in the middle of it since Nigel was a little boy (they had lived in a nice little city before, Nigel revealed one evening when the sun was kissing the horizon). And all on their own. No one ever brought up parents around them. It was safe to assume the brothers had been alone for one reason or another. They had adapted to their environment well at least. Too well. 

Nigel might not have been an alcoholic, but Tommy was wary of his stick-thin body and nervous limbs. He always curled up on himself as much as he could as though he could possibly make himself slip through the grates of the fire escape or implode. His hands were always fiddling with each others and twirling his curly hair. When they sat, his legs were a tangled mess and he hunched over his bony knees. 

His eyes looked healthy, though. And Tommy had seen enough people permanently ruined by the God-forsaken town to know that Nigel was not beyond recovery. He still had the smallest glimmer of hope shining in his body. Tommy didn’t believe that God had touched the town in decades, but he still prayed that Nigel could hold on to that hope. Because when it disappeared, he would be just another poisoned body in the apartment building.

“It’s cold,” Nigel said suddenly. “Do you want to go inside?”

He didn’t wait for Tommy to answer before grabbing the bottle and climbing back inside. 

Tommy had never been in Nigel’s apartment before. He had caught glimpses of Nigel’s bedroom through the window on occasion. He had seen the bed and a bookshelf, but that was it. He didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t know if Nigel was messy or if he had a minimalist style. Though, a minimalist style probably came with being poor. 

The room was small, just like Tommy’s, and was spotless. A dresser and mirror sat next to the closet. The only thing on it was a comb, some papers, and a wooden keepsake box. It looked old, and Tommy assumed it had been passed down. Nigel sat on the floor, back pressed against his bed. Tommy sat next to him, examining the rest of the room for a few minutes in silence. The nightstand had a few books on it--one of poetry and one a novel. Two shelves hung on the wall across from them, and Tommy only recognized a few titles. 

“I’ve read  _ Flowers for Algernon _ ,” he said. 

Nigel’s eyes lit up. “It’s one of my favorites!”

In a mess of scrawny, clumsy limbs, he jumped up and grabbed the book.

“I read it in high school,” Tommy said. “I read some good books my junior year. We had a scandalous English teacher that let us read shit like that.”

“Oh right.” Nigel sat back down, a little closer to Tommy. “You went to a religious school. Those must have been the worst English classes ever. All the good classics are about sex.”

“What do you know about sex?”

“I’ve read Kate Chopin. I’ve read  _ Madame Bovary _ .”

Tommy didn’t recognize either of the names. He rolled his eyes anyways.

“Wow. You must be an expert.”

“I am.” Nigel thumbed through his worn copy of his novel. “But  _ Flowers for Algernon _ is one of the best books ever written--even if it isn’t about sex. Listen:  ‘He's put his whole life into this. He's no Freud or Jung or Pavlov or Watson, but he's doing something important and I respect his dedication--maybe even more because he's just an ordinary man trying to do a great man's work, while the great men are all busy making bombs.’ Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that one of the best things you’ve ever heard? ‘While the great men are all busy making bombs.’ I love it. It’s amazing.”

Tommy smiled. “Do you act?”

The way that Nigel recited the lines was beautiful. His voice was clear and passionate. While Nigel was in love with the lines, Tommy found himself more interested in the delivery. He didn’t know much about acting. He wasn’t allowed to. Too many plays were scandalous, and the only ones his school allowed were boring. Not even the first plays ever written were allowed. Greek tragedies, filled with their gods and myths, were shunned. The greatest plays from the 16th and 17th century had too many dick jokes apparently. Those definitely weren’t allowed. 

Nigel balanced his book on his knee. He grabbed the whiskey bottle. 

“Not really,” he said. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a swig. “I don’t like it as much as writing. But my brother usually makes me be in shows.”

“Really?”

“I only play small roles. A few lines. I’m okay with it, but I’d rather be writing.”

“I want to see you in a show.”

Nigel scoffed. He took another swig. “You wouldn’t be watching me as much as you’d be watching everyone else.”

“So? I’d like to see a show anyways. I’m sure Portia would want to go, too.”

“I’ll let you know when our next show is opening if you can sneak out past your dad.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about him. I’ll just say we’re going to the library for a few hours to study.”

Nigel took another mouthful of whiskey before he set it aside and picked his book back up. He flipped through it again a little before landing on another page. 

“This one: ‘ Intelligence is one of the greatest human gifts. But all too often a search for knowledge drives out the search for love. This is something else I've discovered for myself very recently. I present it to you as a hypothesis: Intelligence without the ability to give and receive affection leads to mental and moral breakdown, to neurosis, and possibly even psychosis. And I say that the mind absorbed in and involved in itself as a self-centered end, to the exclusion of human relationships, can only lead to violence and pain.’ I love love. This is my excuse for not going to college.”

He was starting to talk a little louder than necessary. Tommy smiled at him. He had never been around a drunk person before with the exception of those who walked past him in the halls. Nigel seemed like a calm drunk, though. If he stayed relaxed, Tommy could get him in bed with no problems.

Nigel leaned his head back with a smile. He closed his eyes, book hanging in his limp hand. 

“I think you should go to bed. You’re drunk.”

Nigel hummed. “Probably.” He looked at the book for a moment before closing his eyes again. “I wish I could write like this. I wish I was better.”

“I’m sure you’re great.”

“I’m okay. I just want someone to read something of mine and say ‘... damn.’ Because that’s when a book is really good. When you just say ‘damn.’ I want that. I want a ‘damn’ book.”

“That’s nice, Nigel. Let’s go to bed.”

He pulled Nigel up and made him get under the bedsheets. He would have to sleep in his clothes. 

“Comfy? Good. I’m leaving--”

“No.”

Nigel, still with his book in his hand, shoved it at Tommy. He pressed it into his chest. 

“What?” Tommy looked down at it and took it out of his hands. 

“Read me your favorite part.”

“Why?”

“I told you my favorites. Now you have to tell me yours.”

Tommy sighed. “Fine.”

The pages were already marked up with highlighter and pen. Notes were scribbled in the margins in different colors and some pages were dog eared. Tommy skimmed through the beat up book until he found something marked up with blue marker. He remembered it from high school. It had stuck in his mind after all those years.

“Ok. Umm…. ‘The universe was exploding, each particle away from the next, hurtling us into dark and lonely space, eternally tearing us away from each other--child out of the womb, friend away from friend, moving from each other, each through his own pathway towards the goal-box of solitary death.’”

Nigel stared at the ceiling, silent for a moment before mumbling: “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“That was a sad one.”

Tommy put the book on the nightstand. “Go to sleep. Now.”

Nigel looked at him. His brown eyes were warm. His eyebrows were tilted up in maybe sympathy or sorrow. Tommy couldn’t make it out. He didn’t want to, either. He stood up. 

“I’ll see you later, Nigel.”

Nigel turned on his back again. “Bye.”

Tommy climbed out the window, looking at Nigel one last time. He was still staring at the ceiling like there was some great phenomenon up there. Tommy left him to his imagination and thoughts. 

He went to his own room, sliding in without a sound. He shed his jacket and threw it aside. His room was considerably less clean than Nigel’s. Clothes were scattered on the floor and on his chair. His closet door was wide open, showing off an even bigger mess. But at least he wasn’t drunk on whiskey. 

Tommy took off his shirt, throwing it at the hamper and opening a dresser drawer. He grabbed a t-shirt and before he could walk away he pulled out the rest of his clothes. Under his clothes, he had two novels. One of them was some book a friend gave him but warned him that it was a bit too blasphemous for the Brooks household. The other was his copy of  _ Flowers for Algernon.  _

He lounged on his bed, looking at the old annotations. There were only a few to point out when something was a symbol or a part of the theme. And one quote in the middle of the pages highlighted and later used in a personal essay.

_ The problem, dear professor, is that you wanted someone who could be made intelligent but still be kept in a cage and displayed when necessary to reap the honors you seek. The hitch is that I'm a person. _


End file.
